The Place that Never Was
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Just some little fluff that I suddenly wanted to do. After the Fall, Sherlock is in America, looking for Moriarty's agents. What he finds instead is that an innocent girl's life is in danger. Fluff mixed with drama. Sherlock and a kid.
1. Loneliness Ends

**Chapter 1: Loneliness Ends**

Despite being "dead," Sherlock could not seem to shake his profession. He spent a few days in his hiding place, memorizing his fake identity and trying to get the lay of the land. The small, suburban areas of Haven, New Jersey, United States of America were not a difficult spot to memorize. The town reminded him of a country home his family had once rented for the summer, without the benefit of a lake with interesting algae samples.

But, anyway, here he was, lingering outside of the police station. It was a dreary day, but not a rainy one. The forecast had predicted thunderstorms, and Sherlock could smell the storm on the air. He was bored, not having yet found the exact location of Moriarty's American operative, and needed something to occupy his mind. Besides, of course, thinking about the people and the country he'd left behind.

Suddenly, he detected an air of unrest among two police officers lingering outside the station. There was a little girl with them, with hair a fiery red color. Sherlock crossed the street and slid in front of a café, pretending to be looking at the menu but really listening to the dialogue going on nearby.

The policemen were obviously trying to talk to the girl. "What's your name?" "What did you see?" "Can you talk?" But they were getting frustrated, as the little girl was unresponsive. Sherlock looked her up and down, his mind picking up on facts. The reason the police were so interested in her was that she'd been in a house fire—the only survivor, most likely. He could tell by the ashes on her shoes and in her hair, though her clothes had been changed by someone (likely a psychiatrist). She wasn't an American child—the red hair pointed to her Irish heritage, and she couldn't speak English. The little girl wasn't looking at the police officers. She was watching passers-by on the street and playing with her fingers.

_Sign language!_ Sherlock thought. Here was a challenge! The last time he'd been bored, he committed himself to learning sign language, in case it became useful later on. Here was his chance to prove (to himself, he realized with some disappointment) that he had learned enough of the language to communicate with someone who used it! He strode over to the officers and knelt down to the little girl's level. "I think I can help," he said kindly, turning his attention to the girl and lifting his hands.

_Hello._

The little girl seemed slightly surprised Sherlock knew what he was doing. _Hello_.

"You can _speak_ to her?" One of the officers asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock tried to disguise his accent a little more by trying to sound more American. "It's sign language. She's not American. Her father was Irish and her mother was deaf. She can't speak English, because her father never spoke it to her."

"Ask her what her name is."

Sherlock complied.

_Eliza Hadley_.

"Ask her if she saw anyone suspicious around her house this morning."

_No. There was a whining sound._

"Explain."

_Sounded like a whoosh, like ticking. I was scared._

Sherlock smiled. _It's okay_. He signed, before communicating the information to the police officers.

_How do you know it's okay?_ The little girl signed.

Sherlock shifted to his other knee. _Because the police will protect you._

_No. They're bad._

_Why?_

"What's she saying to you?"

Sherlock wracked his brain for a lie. "Childish nonsense. Anything else to ask her?"

"Ask her if we can step inside the station," one of the officers pulled his jacket around him. "It's getting chilly."

The little girl complied, but wanted to be picked up. Sherlock sighed and lifted the child. _What's your name?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and whispered in her ear: "Sherlock." There was no harm in telling a child his real name. Especially not a child who couldn't speak English. And there wasn't a sign for "Sherlock" in sign language.

The little girl tried to make one up. _Shear lock?_

_Close enough._ Sherlock signed with his unoccupied hand. _What language do you speak?_

_Gaelic._

That was fortunate. Mycroft had made him learn Gaelic when he was twelve. "_Do you mind if we talk? It's easier for me because I'm carrying you._"

"_Okay_."

"_You don't like the police. Are they after you?_"

"_My daddy didn't like the police_."

"_Why not?_"

"_Bad Man_."

Sherlock left it at that, to draw his own conclusions. Maybe he'd stumbled upon Moriarty's operative in this country completely by accident. Obviously, the fire was an arson—some kind of incendiary bomb, perhaps, that didn't go off as planned and left the girl as a survivor.

Maybe it was best that Sherlock hang onto the girl. She could prove useful.

There were some official statements to be made, which Sherlock translated for. Then, the officers shook his hand. "Thanks for your help, Mister…?"

"Saylor. David Saylor." Sherlock replied, smiling back.

"Right, Mr. Saylor. Well, we need to get Eliza here settled into a foster home that would be safe from anyone trying to pursue her."

"I'm renting a hotel room just outside of town," Sherlock replied. "I could take her there with me." He was silently hoping that the Americans would be as easily pulled into his charming demeanor as Scotland Yard had been.

The officers considered things, and then relented. "Very well. Seems for the best, especially since you're the only one who can speak to her. We'll let you know if she's needed." The officers gave him a few papers to sign and a number to call in case, and then Sherlock took his valuable (but vulnerable) ally with him.


	2. Lunch with Eliza

**Chapter 2: Lunch with Eliza**

The little girl was apparently easy to please. Within minutes of getting back to Sherlock's hotel room, she found where he'd thrown his scarf and began playing with it, weaving it around as she sat on the center of his bed. Sherlock opened up his laptop and began doing research, keeping an eye on the girl behind him using the oversize mirror. She seemed strangely unnerved for a girl who had most likely just lost her parents, but she seemed to be very fond of him already.

And despite his better judgment, he was fond of her as well. It made him think, again, that he'd become too human while living with John. He'd gained an ability to care for and to love other human beings. Maybe not on a sexual level, but on an emotional level, certainly. After all, he'd willingly faked his death for their safety. And he would return victorious for their continued well-being.

But about the girl. Eliza. Sherlock swiveled in his chair and watched her for a moment. It seemed she'd grown tired of playing with his scarf and had made a fort out of his pillows (somehow—there were only two pillows). The tall, thin man, who hadn't had reason for a genuine smile in a long time, couldn't resist giggling at the child's antics. Eliza looked up at him, obviously triggered by his giggles. _Come play?_

_I have work to do._

_Please?_ This was coupled with the sweetest pout that Sherlock had ever seen.

Not usually a fan of children, the consulting detective felt a tug at his long-dormant heartstrings. She made him feel…better. It was the same sort of calming effect lazy afternoons with John always had on him—bliss. Comfort. Peace.

Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and laid it over the back of the chair. He slipped out of his shoes and sat on the bed. _How do I 'play'?_

She giggled, diving at his chest, bringing him down upon the bed. Sherlock gasped in surprise, and he laughed. The little girl was straddling him, her small weight resting on his stomach. Sherlock chuckled, breathed calmly, suddenly glad he hadn't had anything to eat in quite a while. The little girl was smiling widely, her small fingers gently exploring the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock yawned, almost closing his eyes before he remembered.

Normal humans had to eat at normal times. _Are you hungry?_

The little girl hesitated. _Yes. Do we have to stop playing?_

_We can play later._ Sherlock nudged her off him and stood up, brushing himself off. He naerly jumped out of his skin when he felt small, delicate arms wrap around his neck, extra weight added to his back. "_Carry me!_" Eliza shouted in Gaelic, laughing.

Sherlock looked outside, looked at his jacket. It wasn't exactly cold out, but he knew that he got cold easily because he was underweight by about two stone. The little girl didn't have a jacket, though, so maybe they would both be okay for a few minutes. "_All right,_" He replied, making sure his credit card said the right alias. "_I will be teaching you English._"

Eliza only giggled in response.

Sherlock had long ago memorized the area, so he knew of a few shops with decent coffee. American coffee tasted different than British coffee. It was sweeter somehow. He took it with milk to try and dull the flavor. The particular coffee shop used soy milk, which gave some bitterness back to the primary liquid, a fact Sherlock was happy about. The little girl tugged his shirt and pointed at a iced cookie in the display case. _I want it._

_You have to eat real food._ After deliberating a while, Sherlock ordered a cheese sandwich for Eliza, figuring children didn't have an extensive enough palate for most things. He didn't think she was lactose intolerant, either. The cookie she wanted had chocolate in it, if not milk itself, and even a child of her age should know what they can and cannot have.

_Please get it for me._

"Anything else?" The woman behind the counter asked, smiling broadly.

Sherlock ordered the cookie. The little girl jumped up and down happily.

_You have to eat your lunch first._

Eliza sighed. _Okay_.

Sherlock collected the food (he'd already gotten his coffee) and he led Eliza over to a small table by the window. The little girl climbed into the chair across from him. Sherlock pushed the sandwich towards her and stared out into the crowd of Americans while he sipped his coffee.

"_Where's yours?_"

The Gaelic startled him. _I don't have any._

_Why?_

Sherlock lifted the coffee to his lips. "_This is enough._"

_Why?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, forgetting that this was a favorite word of children. _I don't need to eat._

_Mommy told me everyone needs to eat._

Sherlock thought about how he could explain this to a child. _I'm special._

_Special how?_

_Magic!_ He fluttered his fingers at her, smiling.

Eliza cocked her head, considering this. She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed contemplatively. _It tastes funny._

_It shouldn't._ Sherlock worried for a moment, but he let himself think it was because he'd be losing valuable information and not because he actually cared if she died. Already, he had the route to the hospital mapped in his head.

Eliza held it out to him innocently. _Try it?_

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, relieved. She was a clever one. He _loved_ clever people. She was a great mind…in a child's body. _I'm not hungry._

_See if it tastes funny. With your magic._

Inside his head, Sherlock groaned. Appealing to whimsy had been a mistake. But as the girl held the sandwich out closer to him and he smelled the warm, melted cheese, his will began to break a little. He hadn't eaten since he'd taken down the first string of Moriarty's web in Moscow under the name Adrian Lagounov. Well, it had been longer, now that he recalled. Probably the in-flight meal on the plane from London to Moscow. And he'd hardly eaten any of that disgusting excuse for fuel. His stomach was starting to feel deprived. _I'll taste it._ He relented, taking the sandwich from her. He took a small bite and chewed reluctantly.

Suddenly, his brain bloomed with deductions: cheddar cheese, sharp and gooey, crisp white bread, lightly toasted with butter, warm, tasty. Nothing out of the ordinary about it. He swallowed, a part of his brain nagging him that it never ate on a case. _'Shut up,' _he thought. _'It's only one bite…'_

_Is it good?_ Eliza asked, smiling mischievously.

Sherlock chuckled silently to himself. _'I've met my match in a child. My God.'_ _There's nothing wrong with it._

_I know._ That cheeky child! _I asked if you liked it._

_Better than the food they feed you on airplanes._

Eliza giggled and finished her sandwich, saving the cookie for later. They went back to the hotel, Eliza insisting she hold his hand all the way back.


	3. A Place for You

**Chapter 3: A Place for You**

'_There is a place for you in my heart…damn it, __**why**__?'_

Sherlock was lying on his back on his bed. Eliza had fallen asleep against him, her body curled slightly into his side, her head resting on his breastbone, small, pudgy hand clasping at his buttons. He was watching her as her breath came and went, his body warmer by the spot she breathed on. Her fiery hair was tossed about as if by wind, some on her shoulders, but most of it on her back. Some of it dared to brush against his outstretched arm.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. He should've known that allowing Eliza to rest against him would render him immobile for the rest of the night, or at least until she stirred enough that he could slide out from under her. Somewhere inside him, though, emotions twinged. Some sort of…fatherly affection? But _why_? It was illogical and senseless, something he thought he'd deleted once deciding he would never "fall in love" like his foolish classmates at Cambridge, obviously obsessed with procreation.

Sherlock knew he'd become much more human since living with John. He rotated his outstretched wrist and stretched his fingers to keep feeling in his arm. He knew that, because of John, he'd begun to care about others he was close to. But…a child. What made a child think she could just wriggle into his life and clamp down hard on his heart?

Eliza sighed in her sleep and clutched harder at his buttons. Sherlock felt his logical exterior melt a little bit, his interior emotions seeping out a little. She looked cute (that was the word, right?), her soft, rounded features peaceful in sleep, her fingers gripping onto him for dear life. Sherlock understood why she'd latched onto him. Unlike the police she didn't trust (he was getting to that), he understood her. He'd been able to communicate with her, to open a child who previously was closed off from the world. And he was going to teach her English. It would make finding a permanent home for her easier.

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Lonely. He'd always been lonely. But it had been his own choosing…hadn't it? He thought back, digging through stored memories, searching for a time in his life when loneliness was not what he wanted.

He could've been a kinder man, he realized. Born with a soft heart that was hardened by time, right from the start of his life. His mummy had turned to drinking because of the unplanned pregnancy of Sherlock (Mycroft was supposed to be their only son), and he'd been sorely neglected as a child. It was one reason, he theorized, why he could (John called it "starve," he called it "deny"). It was certainly the reason he was practically impenetrable emotionally, surely.

When a person with a soft heart is constantly rejected, bullied, starved of affection, they close themselves off completely, remain a child in this way, abused and hurt forever. Sherlock realized that he would always be a child in this way. His mummy had a soft heart, and had cared endlessly for Mycroft. But Mycroft was cold like his father, cunning like a snake, hateful of coddling and insensitive to the pain of others. His mummy, as we have said, ignored him. Mycroft would not be loved. So Sherlock merely adopted the general attitude of his family.

And never let anyone in.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, perhaps to bring himself back from painful memories. Maybe it was a reminder that he was _not_ a patient in a psyche ward. Yes, that explained sufficiently why, for all his life, he'd refused to show very much emotion. It was why he repelled others. A cold demeanor. And then, along came John.

And John had cared.

John had saved his life, only hours after knowing him. John continued to get to know and understand him. And in return…Sherlock had begun to care a little.

It had begun at the famous pool scene. Sherlock was genuinely worried for John, genuinely hurt when he thought John was Moriarty. It was not just adrenaline, nor was it the thrill of the chase, the danger of the bomb. No, never. It wasn't that.

Sherlock's heart was unused. Scarred. But…open. So very much _open_, responsive to the right attention. Of course, in some cases, his heart closed up again. He'd innocently given to Irene Adler, closed himself to John after being taken advantage of. The used had used.

But John's reaction hurt him. And Sherlock had apologized (sort of). He'd admitted to John that he needed him, more or less. And knew he still did. Of course he did.

It was why the emotions of homesickness and loneliness followed Sherlock as faithfully as his shadow, from London, to Moscow, to Ireland, to America. Sherlock needed to feel that his wounded heart was being cared for, now that the bandage had been ripped off, the barricade blown away by one man in a wool jumper.

Sherlock inhaled a shuddering breath. Was that…a _sob_? He looked at Eliza, who was now sort of hugging him, her grip becoming tighter as she slept deeper. It made the pain dull, and eventually made it go away enough so he could think clearly again.

Eliza was the second woman to penetrate his barricade, tear away the bandage from his wounded heart (which, really, had never been patched up properly after his fall from St. Barts). She'd made him feel okay. Whole. At peace. At rest.

She made him feel like Sherlock Holmes the human being instead of just Sherlock Holmes the computer. The _machine_, which was a much harsher word for his "zone." And Sherlock the Human included that "machine," but balanced it out with the heart. It sort of gave Sherlock more meaning. Sort of. Because we can't expect Sherlock to become completely human.

Sherlock reluctantly wrapped his arm around Eliza, instinctively holding her close as she shivered. Yes, all right, a little girl had broken down his defenses. They were weak to start with. And he knew that he cared for her, past the fact she possibly held information he needed. She was not something to discard after using, like a tissue.

She was a human being. A child. To be…cared for?

Sherlock shook his head and stopped worrying about why he cared so much for this child and focused instead upon the case.

After all, there was such a thing as paying _too_ much attention to something.

_Right! Well, I got some confusion as to the…point of this story. _

_Umm, it's crack, it's OC in some places, it's shameless fluff. Yes, I'm aware. I got the idea from a scene in "A Study in Pink." I wanted to see how Sherlock would handle a kid. It's not logical, I know. _

_Also, apparently Benedict Cumberbatch is good with kids. I read a rather cute description of his interaction with Martin Freeman's kids on the set, so I naturally mixed the two together. Sherlock and children. Will wonders never cease? _

_Sherlock's met his match in this little girl. It's cuter than seeing him baffled by Irene Adler, don't you think?-SH_


End file.
